The ABCs
by FaramirsBlessing
Summary: One-shots concerning Sam, Dean, and whomever else I see fit with different medical ailments or terms for each letter of the alphabet. Because, let's be honest, these guys are hurt A LOT.
1. A is For Anaphylaxis

**A/N: All righty, then. I'm new to the Supernatural fandom, like virtually brand new, but I have years of experience listening to my friends weep about Sam and Dean and Cas. I basically marathoned Season 1 less than a week ago so now I'm hooked. I'm also emotionally traumatized, but I'm assured that it'll get much worse. So. . . I love all the angst on this show, and I decided to add some more. I adore medicine and the like, so each chapter will deal with either an ailment or some medical device (like a ventilator or an ET tube). Seeing as I've only seen Season 1, the earlier chapters will focus mostly on Sam and Dean and not others. Give me some time and others will show up eventually. It's gonna be great, guys. :)**

**Disclaimer: I, unfortunately, do not own Supernatural or any of the characters and I make no profit doing this.**

**Disclaimer #2: I am not a medical professional (yet) and my research is based off textbooks and many hours of arduous research on the internet. But if any of you are medical professionals out there, I'd love to hear your input.**

**Reviews are much welcome! Enjoy! **

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_**A is For Anaphylaxis**_

"Dude, what is this?" Dean whipped a small, penlike object from out of Sam's duffel, throwing him a strange look. "Is it a pen?" He began to take the bright orange cap off, but Sam snatched it from him with an eye roll.

"It's an EpiPen, Dean."

"An EpiPen?"

"Yeah, it's short for epinephrine?"

Dean stared at his brother blankly.

"It's for anaphylaxis," Sam explained. "Severe allergic reactions."

"You allergic to something?"

"Yeah, to wasps."

"When did you get stung by a wasp?"

"Back at Stanford. We were all screwing around, must have messed with their hive or something. Next thing I know, I can't breathe and had to be rushed to the hospital. Apparently I'm incredibly allergic to them."

Dean regarded his brother curiously, taking the pen from him.

"And this helps?"

"Yeah, epinephrine is adrenaline. It makes your heart beat faster, keeps your throat from swelling up."

"Really?"

"Yep." Sam turned back to his bag, taking some clothes from it and stuffing it in the motel drawer. When he turned back to Dean, his brother was still staring at the pen.

"Teach me how to use it," Dean demanded suddenly, holding the pen out to Sam.

"Why?"

"Don't ask questions, just do it."

Sam rolled his eyes.

"It's not that hard, really. You just hold it in your hand like a fist and then jab it into my thigh."

"Through your clothes?"

"Yeah, the needle goes through."

"How do I know if it worked?"

"There's a colored indicator. If this strip right here changes color, then you administered the drug."

Dean shrugged.

"Seems simple enough," he said.

"Yeah, that's cause it is."

Dean filed away the information, hoping he never needed to use it.

**_A Few Months Later_**

The brothers were running through some God-forsaken forest in Montana, chasing after some God-forsaken monster, hoping to catch it before it hurt anyone else. Dean was sprinting quickly through the forest brush, knowing that Sam was right behind him, and, with a perfect shot that any sharp shooter would be proud of, the eldest Winchester put that hideous beast to rest. He turned around to grin at his brother, but he was nowhere to be seen. Dean frowned.

"Sam?" he called. No answer. "Sammy?" Nothing.

Beginning to be nervous, Dean rushed back through the brush, continuing to call for his baby brother. Less than a minute later, Dean heard a painful wheeze and rushed forward into a clearing. There was Sam, leaning apparently uninjured against a tree.

"Sam!" Dean said, relieved. "You really shouldn't fall behind, you know. Next time I'll just leave your sorry ass."

Sam didn't respond, but only shifted feebly, his hands reaching for his throat. A worried frown settled onto Dean's face and he took a step forward.

"Sammy?"

Sam made a painful wheezing noise and Dean rushed to him. He recoiled for a moment, horrified. Sam's skin was mottled white and red and his lips and throat were swelled to twice their normal size. Dean steeled himself.

"Where's that damn EpiPen?" he practically yelled at his brother.

Sam pointed at his coat pocket with shaking hands and Dean rummaged through it quickly, Sam's rough breathing whistling against his ear. When he had his fingers wrapped around the pen, he ripped off the cap and did everything his brother had instructed him to.

A stab, a colored strip, and a few tense moments later, Sam's breathing evened out and he took a few hesitant sips of air graciously. He leaned his head back against the tree trunk in exhaustion. His heart was racing. Sam became slowly aware that Dean was watching him warily, his eyes barely hiding his worry. Sam tried to smile reassuringly at him.

"'S all good," he slurred, words coming with difficulty.

Dean's eyes narrowed.

"It is!" Sam protested.

"Where'd the wasp sting you?" he asked. Sam pointed to a swollen red spot just above his ankle.

"Must've disturbed it or something," he explained. "But I'm okay, Dean." He clapped his hand to his brother's shoulder. "Thanks to you."

Dean rolled his eyes.

"Don't get mushy on me, Sammy." But Sam only smiled. "All right, time to get going. Can you walk?"

Sam nodded and Dean helped him to his feet. They started walking back to the Impala.

"You're supposed to take me to the hospital, you know," Sam said after a moment.

"What?" Dean asked. "Why?"

"Observation, make sure nothing happens to me."

"What would happen to you?"

Sam shrugged.

"Complications."

"I'm not spending our stolen health insurance so that a bunch of quacks can observe you for 'complications.' You have another, EpiPen, right?"

Sam nodded.

"Good. Then we have nothing to worry about. I'll watch you myself."

They returned to their motel, satisfied with a job well done and relishing in the fact that everybody was alive, and after a small meal, Sam went to sleep.

Dean silently watched him.

* * *

**You really should go to the hospital after using an EpiPen, though. **

**Reviews are wonderful. :)**


	2. B is For Blood

**Hi, here's another chapter of this. This one is longer and it's Sam and Dean and John. John is a craptastic father and I put some of that in here. Hopefully this one captures the angst in all its glory.**

**Disclaimer: Nope, still don't own Supernatural. If I did, everyone would get a supportive hug every once and a while.**

**Disclaimer #2: Still not a medical expert. **

**Enjoy!**

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_**B is For Blood**_

There was a shit ton of blood in this hunting deal. It seemed that every time Dean turned around, someone was bleeding. Always. Of course, the amount of blood differed. There were always scratches, of course there were, but then there were severe cuts- claw tracks, knife wounds, gunshot wounds, near amputations. All of that.

Dean and Sam were now busily nursing some minor wounds from their latest hunt and as Dean watched his brother wash a deep cut on his arm under the sink, he was suddenly reminded of the first time he had realized the dangers of this job, and the first time he had been introduced to the severity of blood loss.

* * *

It was Dean and Sam's first hunt with their dad. Well, more appropriately, Dean's first hunt. He was sixteen. He was a man. (At least he thought so.) Sam was only twelve. They had a lead on some spirit in the Great Lakes area and had finally located the bones. But this was one hell of a spirit. Once it knew that they were going after the grave, trouble was sure to follow.

It was late. Very late. But Dean was not in the least sleepy. He was excited, seated in the front seat with a shotgun in his lap. He wanted to kill this thing. However, Sam was not so excited. He was lounging in the backseat of the car, his head lolling limply on his shoulder. His eyes were closed under his mop of brown hair. Their dad pulled the car over to the side of the road.

"Sammy!" he snapped. Sam jolted awake and blinked around him. John Winchester tossed his son a gun. "Stay in the car and stay awake. Understand?"

"Dad-"

"Understand?" His tone brooked no room for argument. Sam nodded.

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Come on, Dean. Let's get this son of a bitch."

Dean climbed out of the car, grinning through the window at his little brother. Sam only rolled his eyes.

Dean and Dad climbed through the thick forest, searching for the abandoned lake house where they knew the bones were buried. They had been trudging for a half mile or so when they heard the snap of a twig right behind them. Both swiveled, guns cocked and at the ready, but they didn't see anything. Another snap. Dean fidgeted nervously, eyes roving about him.

"Where is it, Dad?" he hissed.

"Shut up, Dean," was the only response. There was a tense and terrible silence all around them, then the spirit, dripping wet with blood running freely down its fingers, appeared a hundred yards away. Dean and his dad both prepared to shoot, but the spirit disappeared. Dean looked about him wildly.

"Where'd it go?" he asked. He looked towards his dad, who seemed puzzled, deep frown lines appearing on his face.

"I don't know."

Suddenly, from someplace near the road, there was a smash of broken glass, a gunshot, and a brief scream that was cut short. Identical looks of alarm crossed father and son's features.

"Sammy!"

Dean began to dash forwards, back to the car, but stopped when he realized that his dad wasn't following him. He was looking behind him, in the direction of the house.

"Dad!" Dean called. "Come on, we've got to get to Sammy- something's happened!"

"You go, son." He tossed Dean an early version of a cell phone. "Here, take this and call 911 if you need help."

Dean stared at his dad, disbelieving.

"Dad, what? You have to come. Sam-"

"It's trying to draw us off," John interrupted. "It wants us to go back. I'll stop this thing- you get back to Sam. Take care of him, Dean."

His father ran off. Dean watched him for a moment, dumbstruck, but then turned around, his heart filling with fear for his brother.

He got to the road in less than five minutes and when he saw the car, he swore. The windshield was smashed and broken, and, as he got closer, some of the side mirrors were spattered with blood. Dean slowed, fearing what he would see. He took a deep breath, then rounded the car. He gasped.

"Sammy!"

Sam was hunched forward in the front seat, his head resting limply on his shoulder, his eyes covered by his brown hair, which was sticky and wet with something dark. A gun was cradled in his left arm and his right arm was hanging limply by his side. Dean couldn't see much in the dark, but he ran forward anyway, searching his brother's throat with his fingers. The pale skin was sticky and Dean's fingers shook like leaves, but, after a moment or so, he found his brother's pulse. Sam was alive.

"Oh, God, Sammy. Thank God. Don't you leave me. Thank God."

Dean, filled with a strange mix of relief and fear, searched his jacket pocket for his flashlight, then switched it on. A sickening sense of dread crept into his heart. There was blood everywhere. In Sam's hair, on his lips and cheeks, dripping from his mouth and nose and ears. It wasn't bright red either, like in the movies. Some of it was, but most was dark and thick. The smell was terrible. Dean had never imagined blood smelled like this. It was sickly sweet, and it made Dean feel nauseated and unsettled. Dean blinked, and tried to compose himself, looking to see if Sam was injured anywhere else. There were cuts on his palms and arms- strangely clean cuts, as if given to the boy in a systemic manner. There were also cuts on his thighs, but not too deep, and a few from broken glass on his shoulders. The rest of Sam was covered in bloodstains, but not bleeding.

Dean took a breath. He could fix this, he could, but it was terrifying. He laid his and Sam's guns on the road (within reach, in case anything happened), and gently maneuvered himself into the car, so that he could reach for Sam. He wrapped his arms around his brother's chest and began to lift him out of the seat. Sam made a sudden, weak whimper and his brow twitched. Dean stopped moving him.

"Sam?" he called gently. "Sammy?"

Sam's eyelids fluttered open and he groaned. He tried to pull away from Dean weakly.

"Hey, hey, stop, Sam, it's me. It's Dean."

Sam groaned again.

"'urts," he managed weakly.

Dean's heart jumped a bit, but he shoved the feelings away for later.

"I know, buddy, but I've got to take you out of the car. It'll be all right." He tried to move Sam, but his brother struggled feebly.

"St'p," he slurred. "'ean, stop. My. . . my 'ead."

Sam sounded so distressed that Dean stopped moving him, deciding it was best to let him stay in the seat. Sam's breath came in terrible little pants- each one hurt Dean more than anything. Dean, his fingers still shaking, pulled out the phone his dad had tossed him and dialed 911. A woman with a sweet and comforting voice answered the call.

"Hello, this is 911. What is your emergency?"

"H-hi," Dean stammered, silently hating how much his voice was shaking. "Hi, I need help. My brother needs help. There was a car accident."

"All right. What is your location?"

Dean told her that he was on the highway, and that they were in a sort of wrecked up Impala.

"All right, help is on the way. What is your name?"

"Dean," the sixteen year old choked out. "Dean Winchester."

"Good, Dean. I'm going to keep you on the line with me, all right?"

"Okay."

"Good. Now, Dean, is your brother conscious?"

Dean looked over at Sam and gently called his name. Sam whimpered in response.

"Yeah, yeah, he's conscious."

"You said your brother is bleeding, Dean?"

"Yeah, there's blood everywhere. He's bleeding from everywhere. And he keeps complaining about his head."

"Dean, is there a first aid kit in your car?"

"Yes."

"I need you to get it. You have to slow your brother's bleeding. I've sent help to you, but they're still fifteen minutes away."

"Okay, I'll get the first aid kit."

Dean listened to the woman and dressed all of Sam's minor cuts with gauze and bandages, only stopping to comfort his brother when he whimpered or moaned. He watched, nervous, as Sam grew paler and paler, as his breath grew weaker and weaker. As sirens began to wail in the distance, he ended the call with the 911 dispatcher and brushed some of the hair away from Sam's head comfortingly.

"Hang in there, Sammy. It'll be all right. You're safe. Everything's gonna be okay." He realized he was only babbling, repeating comforting nonsense over and over, but it was the best he could do. And Sam seemed to respond well to the words, forcing his eyes open and blinking at Dean. He even tried for a crooked smile.

The paramedics ran up to the car, pulling Dean from the front seat. Dean stood to the side of the car, wrapped in a shock blanket, watching as the crew shouted to others medical words he didn't understand, yelling for equipment that he had never heard of. He hated being separated from the one person he needed most- the person he cared about more than anything. Dean watched as the paramedics secured Sam's neck with a brace and lifted him out of the car. He watched his brother struggle as they lifted him from the seat and laid him on a gurney. They put an oxygen mask on his face to help him breathe, then lifted the gurney into the ambulance. Dean rushed to follow and the paramedics helped him inside. They drove in a rush to the hospital, Dean's eyes on Sam's bloodied face, and, as the drive grew longer, Dean clutched Sam's fingers tightly in his own.

* * *

Everything turned out to be all right in the end. Sam had suffered severe blood loss and had one hell of a concussion and had to stay in the hospital for a couple of days. Dean was loath to leave him.

Their dad had killed the spirit and had come to the hospital as soon as he was able. He told his eldest son he did well, then watched Sam, white as a sheet, sleep softly in the hospital bed.

Dean also became quite the expert at lying. Sam was injured in a hit and run, he told the police, and he didn't remember what the car looked like. Their dad wasn't at the car because he had run off into the woods, searching for help. Sam had been badly injured because he wasn't wearing a seatbelt, unlike everyone else. The police and doctors accepted every word and two days after the spirit attacked him, Sam was released from the hospital.

* * *

Sam looked up from the sink, where he was wrapping a bandage over his arm. He frowned. Dean was holding a bandage in between his fingers, completely unaware of anything around him. Sam cleared his throat and Dean jumped.

"You okay?" Sam asked, an eyebrow raised in concern.

Dean nodded.

"What were you thinking about?"

"Nothing," Dean said with a shrug.

"Really? Cause it looked like something to me."

Dean sighed.

"Do you remember my first hunt?"

Sam raised both his eyebrows this time.

"The one where I almost died?"

Dean nodded and Sam frowned at him.

"Yeah, I remember. Why were you thinking about that?"

"I realized I never told you something about that," Dean said. "Did you know that for weeks after that I had nightmares about it? I still do, sometimes, actually."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

"Aw, Dean, that's so sweet," Sam said in a teasing tone. "You being concerned and everything."

Dean threw his brother a dirty look.

"My nightmares weren't about you, smart ass."

"Yeah, what were they about?"

"That car. Windshield smashed to pieces, bumper all bent up." Dean shuddered. "Oh, poor baby. _That's_ the stuff of nightmares, right there."

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**That Impala _is_ beautiful, though. Reviews are always welcome. **


	3. C is For Cold

**A/N: Sorry for the delay- I was in D.C. with my family for a while and then I had to get someone to edit this because it's about Cas and I needed to make sure I got him right. The other stories should come up faster now that I'm back home. **

**Disclaimer: Don't own Supernatural. (Unfortunately)**

**Disclaimer #2: And I'm definitely not a medical professional.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

_**C is For Cold**_

Castiel sniffled in the backseat. Again. Dean swore to God he was going to kill someone if he didn't shut up soon. He had been sniveling all day, all 300 miles on the road, and it was slowly driving Dean insane. And, to make matters worse, the snivels, accompanied by a cough once and a while, were becoming more frequent. Dean stifled an annoyed groan and glared at Cas through the rearview mirror.

"Could you quit sniveling for two freakin' seconds?" Sam threw his brother a look and Dean felt obliged to add, "Please."

Sam rolled his eyes. Castiel stared at Dean with a slightly red-rimmed gaze.

"Sorry, Dean, it's just that, this human form, it's faulty. It. . . drips."

Sam laughed.

"I think you've just got a cold, Cas." He reached into the glove box and tossed the angel a small box of tissues. Castiel stared at the box curiously, then, after a nod from Dean, plucked a single tissue from it and held it between his fingers.

"What is this?"

"A tissue." Sam took the tissue from the angel and demonstrated how to blow his nose. Castiel just stared at him. Dean sighed.

"Use the tissues instead of wiping your snot all over your hand," he said.

Castiel nodded.

"Thank you," he said, and he blew his nose. Minutes passed in blissful, sniffle-free silence until Castiel asked a question.

"What is a cold?"

Dean sighed in exasperation.

"It's an illness. And you have it."

Castiel frowned.

"But I do not feel cold. Rather, it is slightly warm."

"It's not called a cold because you feel cold," Dean explained patiently. "They call it a cold because they used to believe that you could catch it by being out in the cold for too long."

"Can you?"

"No. That was just a stupid old wives' tale. It's actually passed through the air- it's a virus."

Castiel nodded, slightly interested, although the expression on his face reminded Sam of a bored high school student.

"How does this cold make you feel?" the angel asked next.

"You'd know best," Dean answered. "You have a cold. How do you feel?"

Castiel frowned for a moment, thinking about it.

"Well," he said, "my nose is dripping constantly, my throat is slightly sore, and I have a mild pain in my head. I'm also strangely tired."

"Then go to sleep."

"I do not require sleep. You know this."

Dean sighed and was about to retort when Castiel descended into a violent coughing fit. Sam and Dean exchanged uneasy glances, but the coughs ceased quickly and Castiel groaned.

"This is supremely annoying," he declared.

"Go to sleep," Dean ordered. "You'll feel better." The angel would also shut up if he was asleep, which was an added bonus.

"I don't sleep," Cas said.

"You rest though, right?"

Castiel shrugged noncommitedly. Dean rolled his eyes. He was running low on patience.

"Just shut up and lay down!"

Castiel, with a single nod, lay back flat in the backseat of the Impala. There were fifteen minutes of blessed silence, but, just as Dean was congratulating himself on getting Cas to shut up and stop sniveling, the angel started to cough. Dean threw his hands in the air for a moment, completely done.

"Seriously?" he said to Sam, who only shook his head and laughed. "Seriously?"

"Don't worry so much, Dean," Sam said. "He'll stop soon."

But, unfortunately for the Winchesters, Sam was wrong. Very wrong. Castiel's coughing fits grew in length and intensity. He didn't complain about them, though. He just lay in the backseat, hands crossed on his chest, staring up at the roof of the car. He simply let the coughing fits run their course, not saying a word, hoping that the Winchesters would just ignore him. But Dean was very bad at ignoring things. As the latest of the coughing fits grew louder than the music blaring from the radio, Dean pulled the car over to the side of the road. Sam regarded his brother curiously.

"Dean?"

"That's it. I've had enough. I'm done." He climbed out of the car. Sam watched him, worried.

"Dean?" Sam watched as his brother wrenched open the back door of the car. "Dean, what are you doing?"

Dean reached into the car and shook Castiel roughly. The angel rose slowly to a sitting position, eyeing Dean warily.

"Dean?"

"Take off your coat," the eldest Winchester demanded.

"What?"

"Dean-"

"Take off your coat, you stubborn-"

Castiel held up his hands in surrender, then slipped off his heavy tan trench coat. He handed it to Dean, a wary look on his face. Sam and Castiel watched as Dean rolled up the long coat into a ball and beat it with his fists. He looked back up at Castiel.

"Lay down."

"What?"

"Are you deaf? I told you to lay down."

Castiel's eyes narrowed, but he slowly laid back down. Dean raised his head and stuffed the rolled-up trench coat under Castiel's dark hair as a sort of makeshift pillow. Castiel squinted up at Dean, a question in his eyes.

"It's a pillow, you dolt," Dean explained with an eye roll. "It's to support your head so you can actually breathe. It also keeps you from coughing so much, so that Sam and I can drive without going insane."

Castiel nodded, accepting this, and Dean slammed the door, returning to the steering wheel.

"Was that necessary?" Sam asked.

"Of course," Dean answered. "All that coughing was driving me mad."

"With worry," Sam muttered.

"What?"

"Nothing." Sam looked back at Castiel. "Will your trench coat pillow work?"

Dean sighed.

"It won't stop him from coughing, but it should keep him from coughing every damn minute."

"But how do you know if it will work?"

"Because it worked on you." Sam glanced at his brother curiously. "When you were little," Dean continued, "I used to prop your head and shoulders up with pillows to help you breathe when you were sick. It helped a lot when you were five and had a bad case of croup."

Sam stared at Dean.

"You remember that? I don't even remember that."

"Of course I remember. I remember lots of things."

"Yeah? What else do you remember?"

"That you had a little stuffed dog named Reddie that you lost at a supermarket in Indiana. And that yesterday was Reddie's 'birthday', whatever the hell that means. You used to celebrate it for years until you grew out of it. I still remember the date."

"Why?"

"Because it was important to you."

Sam shook his head in wonder. "I can't believe you remember that stuffed dog. The things I learn about you, Dean."

Dean grinned and Sam shook his head.

"Where did you learn that pillow trick?" Sam asked.

"Mom."

Sam raised his eyebrows.

"Really?"

"Yeah. She used to do the same for me when I was sick. The practice is actually pretty common knowledge. But I learned the habit from her and then I used it on you."

Sam regarded his brother carefully, remembering how Dean had been both mother and father to him. He never had a chance to be a kid- not really. The thought made Sam sad and he turned away, gazing thoughtfully out the car window. After a few minutes, he turned back to Dean.

"You'd better hope Cas doesn't have the flu," he said. Dean pulled a face.

Castiel sat up again in the backseat.

"The flu?" he asked. "What's the flu? Dean, what's the flu?"

"Another illness."

"You humans get sick a lot, don't you?" Cas rubbed his nose with the back of his hand. Dean made a weak protesting noise in his throat.

"That's disgusting, Cas! Use the damn tissues." Castiel reached for the tissues, and Dean then added, "If you get snot all over the backseat, I'm going to kill you."

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**Tell me what you think of Cas, please! Reviews are much welcome!**


	4. D is For Delirium

**A/N: Hey, everyone, here's another chapter. Sorry for the delay- I had writer's block and it was really bad, but then I came up with this. Hopefully you will all like it, so just let me know what you think.**

**Disclaimers: I do not own Supernatural nor am I a medical professional.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

_**D**__** is For Delirium**_

Sam unlocked the motel room door, trying to hold a heavy grocery bag in his arms at the same time. After a few failed attempts and a muttered swear word, the door swung open. Sam stepped inside, closing the door behind him.

"Dean?" he called. "Dean, I'm back!"

There was a groan from one of the beds. Sam put down the bag on a small coffee table and went to stand by Dean's side. Dean was wrapped in the bed sheets, face buried in the pillows, and only his light brown hair was visible. Sam leant forward and shook Dean gently.

"Hey, Dean, wake up."

"'M 'wake," came the muffled reply.

"Then get out of the blankets." Sam shook his brother's shoulder. "Come on, let me take a look at you."

Dean groaned and Sam was obliged to forcefully rip the covers from his older brother. Sam bit his lip in worry. Dean was pale and a sickly shade had crept into his skin. His face was slick with sweat and his hair was stuck onto his forehead. He shivered as the warmth of the blankets was taken from him.

"Dean!" Sam cried, dismayed. "You look worse than ever! What have you been doing?"

"Banging a few chicks," Dean replied hoarsely, and Sam threw him a look. Dean coughed weakly.

"Seriously, Dean, I left you for half an hour. You can't be this sick. Have you been drinking any water?"

Dean shook his head.

"Why not?"

"'S too far away," Dean replied. Sam glanced over at the bedside table, literally six inches from Dean. Sam was worried. It really took that much effort to reach for a glass of water?

"How do you feel?" Sam asked.

Dean clearly thought that was a stupid question and didn't deign to respond. Sam sighed.

"Do you feel worse?"

Dean nodded.

"Like crap."

Sam reached forward and stuck his hand to his brother's brow. Dean frowned and tried to slap his hand away.

"Quit that," he said.

"I'm taking your temperature," Sam announced worriedly, a frown plastered onto his face. "Sit up."

Dean struggled to sit up in the bed, his weak arms barely supporting him, as Sam rummaged through the grocery bag. After a moment or so, he whipped out a small thermometer. Dean groaned when he saw it.

"Aw, man, you're not going to stick that in my mouth, are you?"

Sam smiled. "Open wide, Dean."

Dean opened his mouth and Sam slipped the stick under his tongue, waiting for a reading. Dean was less patient. He began to fiddle with the thermometer.

"Quit moving it around, Dean," Sam ordered, "or the reading will be all wrong." Dean didn't see how that was really that bad. Sam continued talking. "Then we'll have to do it all over again."

Dean pouted at Sam, a look quite undignified with the thermometer hanging out of his mouth. The thermometer finally beeped and Sam pulled it out of his brother's mouth.

"I'm sure it's not that bad," Dean said tiredly.

Sam gazed at the reading, his eyes nearly popping out of his head.

"103.1, Dean. 103.1. How are you even still lucid?"

Dean sighed.

"Can I sleep now?" he asked, the exhaustion evident in his voice.

"Only after you drink some water and take some ibuprofen." Sam handed him a few pills and the glass of water. Dean swallowed the pills obediently and washed them down with two small sips of water. Sam watched him worriedly, watching his hands shake. Dean placed the water back on the nightstand.

"Drink some more, Dean," Sam said, worried.

Dean shook his head.

"Please."

"No," Dean decided, and that was that. He nestled back down into the bed, wrapping the blankets tightly around himself. Sam watched him nervously. He'd give Dean a few hours. If he wasn't doing any better, then he'd give Bobby a call.

"Bobby, what do you know about fevers?"

"What?"

"Fevers, Bobby, what do you know about them?"

"Sam, what's wrong?"

"Dean's sick, Bobby, really sick and he's got a bad fever. I don't know how to lower it."

"Where are you?" Bobby asked.

"Minnesota."

"Can you get over here?"

"It's a few hours drive, Bobby, but yeah, I can get there by sundown."

"Good. I'll be ready for you."

"Bobby, wait." Sam looked nervously over at his brother, who was as white as a sheet and shivering violently under the blankets. "Should I really move Dean?"

"Yeah, Sam, it'll be fine." Bobby made his tone as reassuring as possible. "I'm sure he'll be all right. It's probably just an average stomach bug. Maybe even food poisoning, the places you boys eat."

"His fever is 104.5, Bobby."

"What? Are you serious?"

"Yeah."

"You idjit! Why didn't you do anything?"

"I tried! I gave him medicine and made him drink some water, but nothing's working, Bobby! No one ever taught me this stuff!"

"Your daddy never did?"

"He taught Dean, not me. No one ever taught _me_ anything!" Sam was worried and angry, and his tone clearly showed that. Sam heard Bobby sigh through the phone.

"Look, Sam, if his fever is really that bad then I'm coming to you, okay?"

Sam sighed in thanks. He was beyond relieved that he didn't have to move Dean. Bobby continued talking, his tone as soothing as he could make it.

"I'm sorry, Sam, I know you've had it rough. But everything will be okay. "

"Do I need to do anything else for him?"

"The same stuff you've been doing before. Oh, and just make sure you keep a wet towel or washcloth on his brow until I get to you. Replace it every twenty minutes or so. And if he wakes up try to make him drink a little. You got all that?"

"Yeah, got it. Thanks, Bobby."

Sam waited anxiously for four hours for one of Bobby's dilapidated cars to drive into the motel parking lot. He had food ready for Bobby and himself, and had been trying his best to take care of Dean, although his brother had gotten no better. Finally, after what seemed like a lifetime, an ancient mini van drove into the parking lot. Bobby jumped out of the car, a small bundle in his hands. Sam went out to meet him.

"He's worse, Bobby," Sam said without preamble. "I did everything you told me and he's worse. How could he be worse?"

Bobby turned to Sam and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. The boy was pale and nervous.

"Don't worry, Sam. It'll be fine. Just fine."

"But what if it isn't?"

"If his fever gets any worse, we'll bring him to the hospital, okay?"

Sam went white, but he nodded slowly in agreement.

"Come on, let's go see how your patient is doing," Bobby said and Sam led him inside. Bobby looked around the motel room worriedly. Sam's bed had clearly not been slept in, and used washcloths and towels littered the motel's small tables and hung off chairs. Bottles of medicines lay scattered around the room and food that Sam had brought lay untouched on a counter. The most worrying sight of all, though, was Dean wrapped up like a burrito in the motel's hideous off-yellow sheets. None of him was exposed besides the top of his light brown hair, but Bobby could see him shaking from half-way across the room. He walked forwards and gently shook Dean's shoulder.

"Dean?" he called. "Can you hear me?"

Dean didn't respond, instead only continuing to shake. Bobby firmly grabbed his shoulder and turned him onto his back. He frowned. Dean's eyes were closed, as if he was sleeping, but his eyes moved uneasily under the lids, as if roving about the room. His lips were parted and he murmured incoherently to himself. Bobby turned to Sam, alarmed.

"How long has he been like this?"

"An hour," Sam said nervously, biting his fingernail.

Bobby shook his head, wishing that Sam had called him. He placed his hand on Dean's forehead and the young man tensed at the touch, a frown drawing over his lips. Bobby backed away from him nervously. Sam stepped forward.

"Dean?" Sam asked quietly, and that was enough. Dean's eyes shot open and he began fighting the covers off of himself, a hoarse and primal cry of pain rising from his throat. Bobby and Sam rushed to him, trying to calm him down. Dean fought them off viciously with all the strength he had. He began screaming, his tone desperate and afraid.

"No! No! Sam! Not Sam!"

Sam tried to capture his struggling brother in his arms. Bobby caught Dean's fist as it sailed dangerously close to Sam's ear. Dean kept screaming.

"Leave him alone! No! Stop!"

Sam looked very confused, but Bobby immediately began rambling to the delirious Dean.

"Easy, Dean, Sam's right here, he's safe. No one is hurting him."

"No! Sam!"

"Dean," Sam said, finally trapping his older brother's hands in his own, "Dean, it's all right. I'm here. I'm safe. I'm with you."

Dean started to cry and Sam nearly dropped his hands in fearful surprise. He had rarely seen his brother cry.

"Sammy?" Dean asked quietly, and he sounded lost and afraid, like a child. Sam swallowed his fear and squeezed Dean's hands reassuringly.

"I'm right here, Dean. I'm safe. No one is going to hurt me. And no one is going to hurt you, either, I promise."

Dean nodded, took a shaky sip of air, then leant forward in exhaustion, resting his head in the hollow of Sam's shoulder. Sam wrapped his arms around his brother comfortingly, then cast a glance at Bobby. Bobby shook his head.

"We should bring him to the hospital," the older man said.

"How? He can't walk, Bobby."

"Well, you can carry him, can't ya?"

"Yeah, but what if he goes all delirious again? What if I drop him? I think we should just call an ambulance."

Bobby shook his head.

"A bunch of strangers touching him and prodding him with needles? He won't react well, Sam. He hardly recognizes my voice and he only responds to yours."

Dean shook weakly in Sam's arms and he coughed violently, his entire frame shaking. When the fit passed, the smallest whimper escaped Dean's lips. Sam felt his heart twist into a knot.

"Bobby," he said, and he hated how desperate he sounded, "just call 911." Bobby hesitated, and Sam added, in a sort of hollow plea, "Please."

Bobby sighed and turned to the motel's yellow phone, dialing 911. As he relayed their location and how Dean was doing, Sam kept a hold on his brother, murmuring comforting platitudes whenever Dean so much as twitched. He never wanted to hear Dean scream like that again and he would do anything to prevent it.

Within ten minutes, sirens were heard wailing in the distance and Sam felt Dean tense in his arms.

"Keep Sammy safe," he muttered.

"I'm safe, Dean," Sam whispered in his brother's ear. "You're doing a great job. I'm safe."

Dean relaxed somewhat at Sam's words. Sam looked up at Bobby, who was moving to the motel door. He swung it open quickly, then stepped outside so that the paramedics would see him. Sam saw Bobby wave them down. In a matter of seconds, there were four EMTs standing inside the motel room. There were three men, tall and well built, and a blonde girl, hair in a ponytail under a dark blue cap. She stepped forward hesitantly, laying her heavy medical bag on the carpet.

"Dean?" she said quietly. Dean tensed at the unfamiliar voice. "It's all right, Dean, I'm not here to hurt you. My name is Emma, okay? I'm not going to hurt you. Neither are my friends. We won't hurt you."

"Sam. . ." Dean muttered. Sam patted his brother's back reassuringly.

"They won't hurt me either, Dean."

Dean turned fever-bright eyes onto Emma. She smiled at him. A vague tendril of thought in the back of Dean's mind told him how pretty she was; he tried to smile back at her, but it came out as more of a grimace than a smile. But Emma didn't seem to care, much to Dean's relief. He relaxed somewhat and Emma came closer.

The paramedic caught Sam's eye and he nodded. He placed his hand on Dean's arm and spoke to him quietly.

"Emma and the others are going to take you to the hospital now, all right?"

Dean tensed.

"You?" he asked his brother.

"I'll be there too. I'll stay with you, Dean. Till the end of the line, okay?"

Dean nodded slowly, hesitantly. Emma turned to the other paramedics.

"Can we get the gurney over here, Tom?"

Tom and another EMT disappeared to grab the gurney. They returned with it quickly, pushing it over to Emma, Sam, and Dean. Emma kicked something on the leg of the gurney and it became smaller, level now with the side of the bed.

"Sam and I are going to help you onto the gurney now, all right, Dean?"

Dean nodded, although Sam doubted he really knew what was going on around him. Emma took one arm and Sam took the other and they helped move him onto the gurney. Emma took his legs and swung them over so Dean was laying down. Sam noticed, in his peripheral vision, that one EMT was interviewing Bobby for information. He turned to them, frowning, and didn't see Emma grab a strap and cross it over Dean's chest to keep him in the gurney. Dean panicked as the strap tightened over his chest and began to struggle and scream.

"No! No! Don't hurt me! I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"

Emma and Tom tried to calm him down, but that had the opposite effect as Dean only continued to fight and scream more loudly.

"I didn't do anything! Leave me alone! I'm sorry!"

Sam and Bobby rushed forward, pushing the EMTs aside. Sam ripped the chest strap off of Dean, knowing that it reminded him of far too many tortures. Bobby swore quietly.

"You idjits!" he yelled at the paramedics. "I told you to be gentle with him- not to strap him down!"

"The strap is just standard procedure-" Emma began, but Bobby cut her off.

"I don't think this is 'standard procedure,' sister," he hissed. The EMTs quailed and exchanged nervous glances as Bobby turned away from them. Emma whispered to another paramedic, asking for the IVs. He disappeared.

Bobby leaned back over Dean. His green eyes were wide and bright and his face was pale and sweaty. Sam was whispering reassuringly to his brother and Dean kept muttering something to himself over and over again. Bobby watched as Dean's eyes slowly drifted closed, although he continued to mutter. Bobby frowned at Sam.

"What's he sayin'?" he asked.

"Sorry," Sam replied. "He keeps saying he's sorry."

"Sorry for what?"

"I don't know." Sam was worried- Dean rarely apologized for anything, much less this many times. He looked up at Bobby. "Do you think this has something to do with Hell?"

Bobby paled.

"Lord, I hope not."

Dean finally quieted, his eyes closed and his tongue still in unconsciousness. Emma and the other paramedics came forward and wheeled the gurney out to the ambulance. Sam climbed inside with them and Bobby followed in his car. In the ambulance, they stuck Dean with a few needles for blood draws and IV lines to keep him hydrated and wove an oxygen cannula over his face to make breathing easier on his lungs. Sam held his hand the entire time and was strangely grateful that his brother never woke up.

Two days and some type of lung infection later, Dean was completely lucid, although completely miserable. He was on antibiotics that he hated and he despised all the coughing he was doing. As he lay in the hospital bed, fidgeting with his ID bracelet, he watched his brother sleep uneasily. It was clear Sam hadn't left the hospital- his hair was tousled, there were bags under his eyes, and he was wearing the same clothes as he had three days ago. Dean sighed. He didn't remember much, but he knew that it had been bad.

There was a knock on the door and Dean called to come in, voice quiet enough to keep Sam from waking up. Bobby slipped inside and he smiled when he saw that Dean was awake. He was holding a small bundle in his hands.

"Hey, Dean," he said, "glad to see you're up."

"Glad to see you too, Bobby, although I was hoping for a hot nurse to come in instead." Dean shrugged. "But I guess you'll do."

Bobby chuckled, his warm laughter filling the entire room. The laugh woke Sam and he groaned and fidgeted, then woke up completely with a jolt. His eyes darted about him rapidly, then settled nervously on Dean. Dean smiled at him, but the way Sam was staring at him made him uneasy.

"Easy there, Sammy. How'd you sleep?"

Sam grimaced and rubbed his neck with his hands. His eyes were still fixed on Dean. Dean frowned at him, about to say something, but Bobby interrupted.

"I've got something for you, Dean," he said, holding out the bundle. "You hungry?"

"Starved," the Winchester answered.

Bobby untied the bundle and revealed a small microwavable bowl. He opened the lid and revealed a steaming hot bowl of soup.

"Chicken dumpling soup," Bobby announced. "The best type of food for a sick body anywhere. Here, try some."

He handed Dean a spoon and pushed the soup to him on the bedside table. Dean took a hesitant sip of the soup, then his eyes widened and he began shoveling the rest of the soup in his mouth. Sam laughed- the first laugh Bobby had heard in days.

"What's in that, Bobby?" he asked.

"Can't tell- family recipe," the hunter answered with a wink. "My mother used to make it for me. I brought it for you a few days ago, but. . . ." He trailed off, eyeing Sam worriedly.

"This is fantastic," Dean said, his mouth full of dumpling. He didn't notice Bobby's upset tone, but was only focused on the food. "So good."

Sam grinned at Bobby and Bobby saw most of the worry fall out of Sam's eyes. His brother _would _be fine, just like the doctors had told him. Just fine. But Sam couldn't get out of his head his screaming brother, all the deliriously muttered apologies, how Dean had woken up screaming in the hospital and wrenched all the lines out of his arms before Sam could get to him, how he had to stay with Dean in order to keep him calm and stable. Those memories wouldn't leave him and Sam figured he'd have nightmares about them later.

But for now, the only thing Sam had to worry about was his annoying older brother who wanted to leave already even though he had just woken up.

"When do we get outta this place, Sammy?"

Sam smiled wearily.

"Soon, Dean," he answered. "I promise."

* * *

**Let me know what you think! **


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